


Crime and Punishment

by mssdare



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fisting, Asphyxiation, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Discipline, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Paddling, Punishment, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Hatred, Spanking, disciplined relationship, light asphyxation as a form of punishment, mentions of fisting, one-sided orgasm, some of the tags are just for caution, using sex as punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 10:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11849979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: The thing with Merlin is, he’s never been good at obeying orders.





	Crime and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> This has been written for Pornalot 2017 bonus challenge "Crime and Punishment" and posted originally in the comment thread here: http://pornalot.livejournal.com/11470.html?thread=691662#t691662
> 
> Thank you Daroh for betaing!
> 
> Please mind the tags even if some of them are added just as a precaution.

 

 The thing with Merlin is, he’s never been good at obeying orders, especially when he knows someone will get hurt. But his job is a fucking lottery, and even if he’s more of a wizard than a police intel technician, what with his almost sixth sense for finding missing persons, he just. Can’t. Save. Everyone. And there are days like today, when everything goes straight to hell, when the fourteen-year-old is found too late, when Arthur, who’s Merlin’s supervisor, shouts at Merlin to fucking “abort the mission now! This is an order, Merlin! Abort the mission, _now!_ ” and yet Merlin still can’t stop. He still pushes his luck and then can’t _live_ when he sees it, when he learns what’s happened, when he knows there’s no chance anymore.

In these moments, Merlin yearns for nothing more than to be taken along on the ride to hell, because he’s failed, he’s no good, he’s _nothing_.

*

“Kneel,” Arthur says when they cross the threshold to their apartment, and the elegant white wooden door slams hard behind them.

Merlin goes down on his knees, just like that, in the middle of their hall, air leaving his lungs and black spots dancing in front of his eyes. He’s facing the wall and hears Arthur tossing their keys inside the drawer, then going to the kitchen to fetch himself a bottle of sparkling water.

He doesn’t have to tell Merlin to stay put while he takes a quick shower, because Merlin is good at this part, not moving, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, eyes downcast, head bowed, waiting, feeling the flame of shame on his cheeks. He can hear Arthur moving about—drying off, opening drawers and closing them, putting on some clothes—most probable his jogging pants and the loose, faded T-shirt with a “King of Camelot” logo on it that he always wears on days like this one.

Then.

“Merlin.”

It’s enough—Merlin doesn’t even try to stand. He crawls on hands and knees to the bedroom where Arthur sits straight, a paddle in his hand, and, oh—he’s taken out the hard wooden one. The thickest one. He gestures to the bed and Merlin puts his hands flat on the covers, still kneeling, hiding his face in the duvet. He’ll need its muffling fabric to stay silent.

Arthur reaches around him, deft fingers opening Merlin’s trousers, pushing them down along with the boxers so Merlin’s buttocks are exposed to the air.

“You’ll count to twenty,” Arthurs says, and it’s bad, twenty is a lot, way more than Merlin’s ever received, but so is Merlin’s crime today, so is Merlin’s need to be punished today, to be taken away, to be chastised so hard that he’ll forgive himself.

Arthur’s hand is rough and cold when it makes a fast swipe over Merlin’s exposed bum, right before the paddle hits.

“One,” Merlin says, and fuck. It’s so rough. It hurts. He’s needed it.

“Two,” he says, and almost gasps but catches himself at the last moment.

“Three.”

“Four.”

The hits are methodical—evenly spaced, alternating between butt cheeks, and Merlin knows it’s just preparation. They’ll be much harder later, much more irregular.

By the tenth hit, he’s already drooling on the duvet, tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes, flowing down his flaming cheeks.

“Eleven.” And his mind is swimming, hands clenching hard, stomach dripping lower and lower.

“Fifteen.” He can’t remember the thirteenth and fourteenth hit. His skin is on fire, his voice has already broken down and he’s weeping, like the weakling he is.

“Please,” he says when another hit doesn’t come. “Please,” he begs, trying not to sob.

Arthur runs his hand over the heated skin. His callouses are rough on Merlin’s ass, scratching at the most sensitive spots, but his hand is cool at the same time, soothing.

The sixteenth one comes unexpected. The paddle’s edge catches on Merlin’s arse. There will be bruising tomorrow. For days, he’ll be so sore, he won’t be able to sit.

It’s good. This is what he deserves.

“Seventeen.” The sound comes through clenched teeth. It’s hard. He’s never received as much. Not with this paddle. Not so meticulously. He burns and wants to squirm, but at the same time, he’s finally feeling better—swimming in the sea of pain, scorching, his skin on fire, his muscles on fire, his bones on fire, giving him the relief he craves.

By the twentieth, he’s outright sobbing. There’s snot and drool on the covers, and he’ll have to wash them later. His mouth is open, his legs have given in, so he’s leaning on the bed, almost unconscious. It’s okay. He can’t take more even when he feels like he needs so much more. He wants to lick Arthur’s feet clean, beg him for something, for more of this—for absolution.

“Turn around,” Arthur says, his voice even. He lets Merlin straighten up slowly and waits until Merlin places his trembling fingers on his sweatpants, pulls them down, so Arthur’s cock bobs out—only half hard but getting there. Arthur’s hand in Merlin’s hair is rough, his grip brutally tight when he pushes his cock between Merlin’s open lips.

The fire is there. It’s in Merlin’s buttocks, it’s in his scalp, where Arthur’s pulling _tight_ , it’s in his knees from all the kneeling on the hardwood floor. It’s in his throat, because Arthur is not gentle—he’s growing harder by the second, his long, fat cock filling Merlin’s mouth tightly, hitting the back of his throat with each thrust.

He’s not letting Merlin breathe between thrusts.

He pushes. So hard. Bruising. Leaving Merlin breathless.

There’s no air. Just tears spilling down Merlin’s face, because he can’t breathe and his throat is on fire and his lungs have no oxygen.

He’s floating.

He’s _good_.

Before he blacks out, Arthur pulls back. The warm seed is spilling on Merlin’s face, soiling him like he deserves, but he’s already past caring, he’s still flying, not here, but thousands of miles away, somewhere high above this room, above his failures and sins.

He knows what comes next. He knows he’ll wake up in the middle of the night, with his skin soothed with cool aloe and with cold clean water waiting by the side of the bed—with Arthur’s arms around him, strong and confident, forgiving. And perhaps, if Merlin doesn’t cry too hard then, they’ll kiss, slow and sweet, and bring each other off with skillful fingers until they spill over each other’s hands, still kissing, so close to each other.

Or maybe, if Merlin still can’t breathe right, Arthur will push him on the bed, face down and open him up on his fingers, slowly and methodically, one by one, until there will be four fingers in, and five, and then maybe a fist, and Merlin will be so fucking full, he’ll just lay there, taking it, taking it, taking.

And in the end, he’ll curl up by Arthur’s side, with Arthur’s breath deep and even, grounding, giving Merlin hope like a lifeline, like a respirator, like a pattern he can follow. And he’ll breathe, too, and he’ll wake up in the morning and live again.


End file.
